


Think Twice

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, BAMF Darcy Lewis, Brock Rumlow is not bad, But he's also not good, Darcy Lewis is the fandom bicycle and I love it, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-03-28 17:00:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13908363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: During a bank robbery, Darcy Lewis is surprised when one of the criminals seems to recognize her, telling the others she's on his "no harm" list. She has no idea what that means until a name from her past is revealed to be the leader of a global crime syndicate: Brock Rumlow.





	1. Chapter One

Marble was cold. That’s all Darcy Lewis could focus on; the coldness of the floor and how she would have worn something warmer than a red silk blouse if she knew she was going to end up face first on the bank floor while various figures in black robbed it. She gave silent thanks to whatever God was listening that she opted for high waist black pants over the pencil skirt.

“Don’t move!” A deep voice shouted the command, his words echoing of the bank’s marble walls. Darcy rolled her eyes at whoever decided to play hero. Did these people not see _The Town_? The robbers don’t want to engage. They want to get in, get the cash, and get out. It’s as simple as that. Darcy might even have time to secure her loan before giving a statement to the cops.

“Did you fucking hear me? I said ‘Don’t move!’”

Darcy slowly tilted her head so she could see what asshole that asshole with the gun was shouting at and – “Oh, shit,” she hissed. It was a woman with a baby. The baby didn’t care for the marble floor, either, and could not understand why Mom wouldn’t move. Darcy watched in horror as a man decked in black jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt approached the woman. He wore a black ski mask over his face. Even from her spot beneath the coffee table in the waiting area, Darcy could see his gloved fingers tremble on the automatic rifle clutched in hands. Fear and adrenaline were a shitty combination. Darcy took a deep breath and got to her feet. “You don’t want to do that,” she called.

Several guns swung in her direction. Darcy slowly raised her hands up, crossing them behind her head. She kept her eyes trained on the man near the mother and child, pretending she didn’t care about the other weapons trained on her body.

“What did you say to me?”

“I said ‘You don’t want to do that,’” Darcy repeated, her voice cool and calm despite the wave of terror that swept over her as the man took a step in her direction. “Armed robbery will get you what – 5 years for a first offense? A murder sentence is a lot more than that.”

“You a cop? A lawyer?”

Darcy snorted. “I’m a baker.”

Someone hissed sharply. “Darcy?”

Darcy swung around, forgetting the guns trained on her. The person closest to her rushed forward, standing between her and the others, arms spread wide. “What the hell?”

“Stand down!” The stranger shouted.

“What are you doing?” Another person yelled.

“I said stand down!” The stranger repeated, moving backward, forcing Darcy to do the same, until she felt the wall against her back. More marble, more coldness. She waited for the man to move, but he stayed where he was, his back to her front but at a respectable distance, his gun trained on the six masked figures. “She’s on his no harm list.”

Darcy had no idea what he meant by that, but the others did. Weapons were pulled from their direction and she was seemingly forgotten as they went back to their positions, keeping watch on the dozen or so bank employees while their friends in the back did their thing. The baby was still fussing.

Darcy hesitated, then briefly touched the shoulder of the man in front of her. He stiffened, but didn’t turn around. “Could you – “

“Soldier three!” Darcy watched as the man nearest the woman and child snapped to attention. “Let her up.”

The man shouldered his weapon and approached the woman, crouching before her. Darcy was too far to hear what he said, but seconds later, the man was helping her to a sitting position, letting the child rest in the crook of her arm. He even went to the pile of bags, briefcases and purses they’d collected from everyone moments before, digging through pale blue and yellow diaper bag for a bottle, which he quickly gave to the woman before resuming watch.

“Thank you,” Darcy whispered. The stranger didn’t reply, but Darcy thought he tilted his head in acknowledgement. She wanted to ask who he was, why he was protecting her and what he meant by 'his no harm list,’ but before she could think of a sentence more succinct than “What the fuck?”, the five black-clothed figures who’d gone behind the counter were back, each carrying a large black duffle bag. They exited through the main entrance, followed by their gun-toting friends. The man in front of Darcy was the last to leave, waiting until the others were through the door before he did the same, leaving without a word.

“What the actual fuck?”


	2. Chapter 2

“I can’t believe you didn’t get the loan.”

Darcy grunted and continued to knead the oversized lump of sweet dough bread on the butcher block island while Clint Barton paced the perimeter of the kitchen. 

“You were so ready,” Clint continued. “You had letters of support, a storefront, a down payment. Your business plan was the best one I’ve ever seen!”

“It was the only one you’ve ever seen,” Darcy reminded him.

Clint shrugged, undeterred. “I know when something’s the best.” He leaned against the stainless steel counter that ran the length of the kitchen and sighed. He wasn’t good at cheering people up when they were down. That was his dog’s job, but Lucky wasn’t allowed in the kitchen. “Can you try a different bank?”

Darcy scooped a handful of flour out of the large plastic tub and sprinkled it over the dough resumed kneading, her movements smooth and sure from years of experience. "I doubt another bank would even let me in the door. The manager accused me being part of the robbery!”

“But you had nothing to do with it.”

“I know that and you know that, but he didn’t believe me.” And why should he, she thought forlornly. Not only were there witnesses to collaborate the manager’s story of one of the men taking a defensive stance in front of Darcy, the moment was captured on security cameras. It didn’t matter to any of them that she was just as baffled as they were about the situation. At least the police let her go – after several hours of questioning. She wasn’t completely sure they believed her story, given their thinly-veiled warning not to leave town. Darcy felt a tickle in the back of her throat and quickly swallowed it down. Where would she go?

“So what happens now?”

Darcy shrugged. Planning was never her strong suit, but the night she blew out 25 candles on her birthday cake, she made a promise to herself. She was done running. She was ready to lay down roots, to carve a small part of the world for her own. That meant taking the years of experience she gained working in diners, bakeries and six memorable months at a patisserie in Nice to do what she’d never thought she’d be able to do: open her own bakery.

For the past six month, she’d saved every penny she could and spent the hours she wasn’t baking for her current employer perfecting her own recipes. Clint was the ideal test subject. She had no idea what he did with his time -- and given how often he arrived at their shared apartment building bearing torn clothing and bandages, she thought it best not to ask -- but he had a sixth sense when it came to food, knocking on her door across from his, eager to sample whatever she made. Despite his bedraggled appearance and devotion to pizza, Clint had a refined palate. He didn’t spare his opinions on her food and Darcy took his suggestions seriously.

“Did you know there are two cops in an unmarked car outside?”

Neither Darcy nor Clint reacted to Natasha Romanov’s sudden appearance; they were used to the redhead’s ability to come and go without warning.

“The burgundy Impala?” Clint asked.

Natasha nodded and walked to the kitchen’s coffee pot and poured herself a cup, topping off Clint’s in the process. She knew better than to offer a refill to Darcy. The younger woman downed nearly a gallon of coffee before 6 a.m., and then spent the rest of the day flushing caffeine out of her system with water.

Darcy sighed. She’d seen the car when she arrived for work. She debated about taking coffee to the two men inside, an act of goodwill and whatnot, but dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. The urge to spit in the liquid was too strong. Not good for business.

“One blonde and one brunet,” Natasha continued.

“Detectives Rogers and Barnes,” Darcy supplied. She walked to the sink to wash her hands, briskly drying them on the towel tossed over her shoulder.

“Are those the two that questioned you?” Natasha asked, a thoughtful expression on her face.

“Yeah.” Darcy picked up a marble rolling pin and rolled the dough into a large rectangle. “Talk about your classic Good Cop, Bad Cop.”

“Seriously, dudes,” Clint snorted. “Get some new material.”

Darcy tuned out Clint and Natasha’s quiet chatter as she finished baking for the morning rush. She’d been working at Flour Child for nearly two years, taking over nearly all baking responsibilities a year ago. Because the miniscule kitchen in her studio apartment was exactly that – miniscule – she did the coffee shop’s baking on site, putting in several hours before she flipped over the OPEN sign at 6:30 a.m. Darcy was _not_ a morning person – hence the coffee that sustained her in the early hours of the day – but she did like ending her work day as the majority of the workforce was taking an hour for lunch. She knew running her own business meant more and longer shitty hours, but they'd be _her_ shitty hours. That made all the difference. 

Darcy slid the tray of Cherry Sweet Rolls in the oven with a sigh. She set the timer and left the kitchen with a tray of muffins to fill the display case, determined not to waste any more time thinking about what could have been. So what if her world had imploded? Life went on; it always did. She would, too.

“We’re going out tonight,” Natasha said as she exited the kitchen, a second tray of muffins in her hands. Clint followed with a platter of croissants and a second of blueberry scones.

"I'm not in the mood, Nat."

"Did I phrase it like a question?"

Darcy didn't waste her energy replying. She knew it was pointless to argue once her friend made a decision.

“Clancy’s," Natasha announced. "Be there at seven.” She walked to the coffee shop’s entrance, flipped the lock and left. Clint stayed behind, hooking an ankle around a chair at a small table in the corner and plopping down with a sigh. He dug a tattered copy of _The Road_ from the pocket of his purple hoodie and started reading, every now and then taking a sip from the mug he'd brought from the kitchen. Darcy toasted a multigrain bagel and slathered it with green onion cream cheese before sliding it on one of the bakery's ceramic white plates dotted with daisies and peace signs. If the name didn't scream a former hippie owned the place, the dishware confirmed it. Darcy set the plate at Clint's elbow on her way to turn the shop's sign from CLOSED to OPEN. 

The Impala was still there. Darcy did her best to ignore it as she turned to go back to the counter, but the itch between her shoulder blades wouldn't let her forget she was being watched. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kind response to the story! Your comments are very much appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

_Dear Ms. Lewis,_

_We regret to inform you that your application for a loan did not meet approval._

Darcy stopped reading, crumpling the off-white sheet of paper with one hand before tossing it towards the garbage bin. It bounced off the rim and fell to the floor because that’s her life. Sighing, she walked over, bent down to pick it up, and then dropped in the trash.

Lucky 13. Or unlucky 13. Darcy didn’t know the exact phrase and didn’t care. All she knew was each of the 13 attempts she made to secure a loan for her dream was denied. The form letters weren’t specific. Maybe it was her spotty employment record or the years she spent moving from state to state, country to country that made her seem like a risk. Or maybe bankers gossiped and her apparent connection to last month’s bank robbery was still fresh in their minds, never mind that the ongoing investigation had yet to connect her to the crime in any way. Darcy looked around her small studio, every piece of furniture in it something Darcy found at a thrift store. The same could be said for her wardrobe. Did it look like she just made off with a bazillion dollars in a bank robbery?

(She was guessing on the amount. None of the news stories have given the exact figure stolen.)

On the bright side, it looked like Detectives Rogers and Barnes had moved on. She didn’t see them all week, not that she was looking. Any lustful thoughts she had about the two men died the third time they questioned her, their requests for a moment of her time not really a request at all. Stupid cops. Why couldn’t they have beer bellies and coffee breath like all the officers she’d dealt with in her youth?

Darcy kicked off her shoes and dumped her things on the floor, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. She wanted to nap. She tried to avoid naps because they messed up her sleep schedule, which was already pretty fucked up thanks to her job, but screw it. She wasn’t getting a loan. She wasn’t getting her own bakery. She would never know why some stranger in a mask stepped in front of her at the bank, what the hell a no harm list meant or who the owner of said list was. She was done caring. All she wanted to do was sleep.

Darcy pulled her faded hoodie of her head and let it drop. She tugged on the bottom of the futon that served as her bed, grabbing the quilt she had folded over the back before it got caught in the frame and tore. She smoothed out the pillows scrunched in the corner and slumped onto the lumpy mattress, tugging the quilt over her head. She was asleep within seconds.

* * *

 

It was dark when Darcy woke. There was a streetlight just outside her third floor window, but it went dark weeks ago. Darcy kept meaning to call the city to get it fixed, not loving her early morning walk to work along the unlit street, but it was one of those thoughts that slipped out of her mind as quickly as it came. As long as she kept her not-quite-legal Taser charged, she’d be fine.

Speaking of, Darcy pulled her bag over from where she left it on the floor, digging around until she felt the familiar weight of her closest friend and ally. Stifling a yawn, she got to her feet and shuffled to the kitchen, plugging the Taser in before pulling open the refrigerator to peruse her options for dinner.

“Crap.” She’d forgotten to go to the store. Again. She was out of nearly everything, a carton of questionable chicken fried rice her only real food option. Baking was her passion, but she was a decent a cook. Still, she doubted even the experts on Chopped could turn half a jar of raspberry jam, a few ketchup packets, a can of beer, and some wilted carrots into a meal.

Darcy glanced at the digital clock on her microwave. It was late, but not too late. She could still hoof it to the store and grab what she needed. Her stomach rumbled, pleased with the plan. Satisfied, Darcy pulled the carton of rice from the refrigerator and added it to the garbage bin. She might as well take that and all of its negativity, too. Ignoring what was probably an impressive case of bedhead, Darcy put on her hoodie, pulled her beanie out of the pocket and tugged it over her mop of dark hair, and slid her feet into her ancient black Chucks. She slid her wallet into her back pocket, along with her phone, grabbed her keys and trash bag, and left. She was nearly at the dumpster when she remembered her Taser, still charging on the counter. She threw the bag into the bin, registering the thud against metal as she debated running upstairs to grab it. The closest subway stop was three blocks away and if she hurried, she’d catch the next train with a minute to spare. If she missed it, she was looking at another 20 minutes. Her stomach growled again.

“Fuck it,” Darcy muttered and took off down the street.

* * *

 

She made the train, then made the mistake of grabbing a cart instead of a basket after entering Trader Joe’s. Schlepping four bags of food on the subway wasn’t Darcy’s idea of a good time, but she couldn’t justify paying for an Uber. Luckily, her car was relatively empty, the only other passengers two teens not interested in anyone but each other and some guy who was slouched in his seat, head down. The dark cap on his head blocked his face from view.

Darcy shuffled through the bags she had looped around her arms, pulling out the chicken salad sandwich she’d splurged on at the deli. She unwrapped it and took a bit, moaning out loud. Really loud. Both teens glanced over and Darcy waved. The man in the corner did nothing.

The ride back to her stop was uneventful. The teens got off the stop before hers, their hands tucked in each other’s back pockets. Young love. Darcy snorted and stuffed the last of her sandwich in her mouth. She gave the couple three weeks.

Brushing the crumbs off her black leggings, Darcy stood at the train rumbled to her stops, the bags of food knocking against her knees. Christ, why was everything she needed (OK, _wanted_ ) so damn heavy? She cursed Clint, off on one of his unknown jobs, taking his ugly but dependable truck with him. See if she left him any of the scream cheese brownies she was planning to make.

Darcy ignored the straps slowly cutting the circulation to her hands as she walked to her apartment building, hurrying without making it look like she was hurrying. Her street was quiet, like it usually was this time of night, most buildings filled with families and retirees, not those who party all hours of the night, but it was still the city at night, which made a woman a target. Darcy was having serious regrets about leaving her Taser as home when she saw a shadow step out from the alley less than a block from her building. The figure walked towards her. Darcy casually reached into the pocket of her hoodie for her keys, making sure to grip one between her fingers.

_“Go for the eyes, Darce. Strike there first, then kick his balls as hard as you can.”_

Darcy didn’t relish the thought of gouging someone’s eyes, but she’d do it if she had to. Chances are whoever was approaching her would pass without incident, but she was prepared. Always prepared. Or almost always prepared. She was a fighter. He made her a fighter. No one was going to fuck –

“Hey!”

Darcy didn’t expect the stranger – a teenager, really – to grab the straps of one of her grocery bags. His quick jerk pulled on her arms, the plastic loops twisted around her wrists. The teen pulled again and the straps ripped. Two bags fell to the ground. Darcy heard the eggs break and saw red.

“What the fuck?” Darcy tightened her grip on the two bags in her other hand and swung them hard at the kid. She got him in the side and gave a triumphant “Ha!” when he doubled over. “Milk does the body good, bitch.”

A derisive snort had her spinning. A man stood behind her, about arm’s length away. Darcy heard the kid grab one of the fallen bags and run, the sound of his feet hitting the pavement growing quieter the further he got. Darcy didn’t care. She was pissed about her eggs, but if the teen was desperate enough for food that he had to steal it, he was welcome to hers. She knew what it was like to be hungry.

“I’ve got two more bags and there’s some heavy shit in here,” she warned.

The guy held his hands up. Under the dim light on the one working street light, Darcy recognized him as the man from the subway. She took a step back, then another. Fighting off a kid was one thing. Taking on a grown man was something else. She took another step, forgetting the bag of fallen food the kid left behind and stumbled. A pair of strong hands grabbed her arms before she could fall, but Darcy batted them away, knocking the man’s hat off in the process.

“I don’t need your help,” Darcy panted as she regained her footing.

“You never did, huh?”

Darcy froze. That voice. It had been years since she last heard it, but that didn’t matter; she’d never forget it. She took a tentative step forward, bringing her closer to the man and his uncovered face. Same olive-colored skin and thick dark hair. His teeth were white and straight as he smirked at her. The small scar on the right side of his chin was new, as were the laugh lines around his eyes. Darcy briefly wondered what made him laugh. A long time ago it used to be her, but now …

“Brock?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
